


Eight Bars

by MrProphet



Category: Christian Lore, Doctor Who, Harry Potter - Fandom, Homeward Bounders - Diana Wynne Jones, Judge Dredd - All Media Types, Serenity (2005), Star Wars - All Media Types, The Wardstone Chronicles - Joseph Delaney
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 23:06:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10707039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrProphet/pseuds/MrProphet





	1. Master

_Mos Eisley Cantina, Tatooine – Long ago_

The sand hermit had been propping up the bar for almost eight hours, and had not ordered a drink for more than three, when the barman worked out that he was dead. He called over two of his more trusted regulars and with their aid he performed a pantomime of slinging the hermit out of the door for drunkenness. This was of course without precedent at the Mos Eisley Cantina, where drunkenness was positively encouraged, but a little curious attention was better than a health inspection.

When the sand hermit re-entered the cantina just an hour later, the bartender almost dropped dead himself. Only when the hermit came to the bar did it become apparent that, although it was the same robe, it was being worn by a different man. He must have stolen the robe from the corpse; not unusual behaviour from a sand hermit.

“You got currency?” the bartender growled. It rarely paid to trust in the solvency of sand hermits and this one had certainly got nothing from the previous owner of the robe; the bartender had had that already.

 _This_  hermit, however, produced a fistful of hard cash and displayed it close to his chest.

“What can I get you?”

“Whatever you have that’s strong,” the hermit replied, flipping a single coin onto the bar. He sat down at the bar with his back to the room and kept his hood pulled low over his face.

Just along the bar, a pair of space pilots were engaged in lively conversation.

“I’m telling you, the happy days are over,” the first pilot, a lean, leathery woman of indeterminate years said.

The second, a tall hamadryas male, snorted contemptuously. “The Republic was always making noises about stamping out smuggling; what makes you think they’ll be any more successful as an Empire?”

The hermit’s hands clenched into fists.

“Rodian ale,” the bartender announced, slamming a beaker down on the bar.

“Thank you.”

Eyes turned to regard the hermit curiously and he pulled his hood down a little further. Manners were not the key to secrecy in this cantina.

“What makes me think the Empire will be able to stamp out smuggling?” the female pilot asked. “Well, they’ve done a good enough job on the Jedi, haven’t they.”

The hamadryas snorted again. “So  _they_  say, but everyone knows the Jedi are invincible.”

The hermit gave a soft, bitter chuckle.

“You have an opinion on the matter?” the woman asked.

“I have just come from the Repub… From the  _former_  Republic,” he explained.

“Why would you leave the high and mighty Republic and come somewhere like this?” the hamadryas wondered.

“I didn’t like the way the wind was blowing.” The hermit took a long drink. “I was on Coruscant,” he went on. “I saw the Jedi Academy burn. I’m told that they were betrayed.”

“But a Jedi can kill a hundred men.”

“Maybe, but it turns out that it only takes  _one_  man to kill them.”

“Each?”

The hooded head lowered still further. “All.”

There was a long, tense silence, before at last the hamadryas laughed out loud. “You had us going for a moment!” he declared. “One man killed all of the Jedi! Ridiculous.” Still laughing he drifted away from the bar. The man in the hood bought another ale.

“You know, the last owner of that cloak drank himself to death in here.”

The hood turned a little towards the female pilot, who had walked over to his side.

“There are worse ways to go.”

“I doubt it,” the woman replied. “Not with the poodoo they serve in this joint. If there is a worse way, you’ll find it if you keep getting teary-eyed about the Jedi in public.”

“I should not have spoken.” The man raised his hand and passed it in front of her face. “Forget that I mentioned it.”

“Now  _that_  would be suspicious, because everyone else will remember.” She smiled slightly and leaned a little closer. “You’re not the first Jedi I met and I know that trick only works on the weak minded. I’m not used to taking orders from anyone.”

The man looked at her for the first time. She caught a glimpse of beard and haunted eyes. “What do you want?”

“I’m taking my ship to the Outer Rim; I doubt it will be long before the Empire stretches its hand this way and I don’t intend to be here when it arrives. I can always use a good fighter, a good pilot and good advice, and I think I could get all three from a Jedi.”

The man smiled at the compliment, but shook his head. “I think I’ll stay here.”

She laughed. “Why?”

“My health. I’ll stay and take the waters.”

“On Tatooine?” She shrugged. “It’s your funeral. But if you’ll take  _some_  advice…”

He gestured for her to continue.

“Old Ben – the hermit whose robe you’ve stolen…”

“He didn’t seem to need it,” the man replied, bowing his head.

“Well, he lived in a hermitage on the edge of the Dune Sea. If I wanted to avoid attention without actually leaving the planet, I might well go there.”

The man raised his beaker. “Thanks,” he said. He beckoned the barman over and passed him a larger coin. “Whatever the lady’s having and one for yourself,” he said.

“Lady?” the pilot laughed. “I haven’t been called that in a long time.”

The Jedi stood up and pulled his stolen robe close around him. “Well, I’ll call you it once more. Thank you for your advice, Lady, and good luck on the Outer Rim.”

“And to you… What is your name?”

The mouth beneath the hood smiled briefly. “Ben,” he replied. “My name is Ben.”


	2. Wanderer

_Taverna Justinus, Jerusalem – AD34_

The slave girl who served in the Taverna Justinus was surprised to see the man at the bar. The Taverna catered to a mostly Roman clientele and the man – with his heavy set and flame-red hair – was clearly no Roman. His hair was roughly cropped with a long fringe which hung loosely above a pair of dark, fierce eyes. Frightened by those eyes, the girl hung back, hoping the master would serve the man, but the master was deep in conversation with his old army buddies.

“Wh-what can I get for you, sir?” the girl asked nervously.

The fierce eyes bored into her. “A cup of wine,” he replied. He dug in the pouch on his belt and produced a small, copper coin. “The cheapest and the foulest wine that you have,” he decided ruefully.

“Yes, sir.”

The man stared straight ahead of him as he waited for his drink, but gave a slight smile when it arrived. “Thank you.”

He sipped his wine and then winced. He knocked back the rest of the cup swiftly, so that he did not have time to taste it. “Do you know of the prophet known as Jesus of Nazareth?” he asked.

“Please, sir. I… I don’t…” The girl stammered excuses and tried to move away, but he held her with his eyes.

“Tell me what you know,” he said softly.

“The man called Jesus of Nazareth was arrested by the Temple Guards,” the girl whispered. “He was tried for blasphemy by the Sanhedrin and handed over to the Romans for execution. There was some delay, but he was crucified a few days ago.”

The man’s eyes flashed in frustration.

“There was…” The girl leaned closer to the man. “There was trouble. The sky turned dark and the earth shook; there was panic and fear among the crowd and among the legionaries guarding the place of execution on Golgotha. Then yesterday word came down that the tomb in which the man had been laid was empty. The legions are restless; it is not wise to speak that name in this place.”

“Is it not?” the man asked with a smile. He turned and faced the room. “And why should I not mention the name of Jesus of Nazareth?” he asked loudly.

Silence fell across the taverna.

“You wouldn’t be one of the Nazarene’s followers, would you?”

The man shrugged. “I would have been, but am not.”

Voices were raised angrily and a knife was drawn. Justinus stepped forward. “We don’t care for seditionists,” he said.

“You had better leave before you get killed, stranger.”

The man chuckled. “I had hoped that the Nazarene would help me with that,” he said, “but you can’t. Believe me, many have tried and suffered the consequences.”

Centurion Longinus rose to his feet and drew back his cloak to reveal the sword at his side. “Do you threaten us?” he demanded.

“Not I,” the man said. He reached up and pushed back his fringe.

To the girl’s amazement, the Romans in the bar all averted their eyes from the man. After a moment and without any coordination, they sat down.

The man turned back to the bar and the slave girl saw what had frightened the other patrons in the taverna. The man’s brow was marked with a ring of Hebrew letters. She could not read the words, but somehow she knew that the sign meant death to anyone who raised his or her hand to the red-haired man.

“Another cup of wine,” he said softly.

“O-of course,” the girl replied.

Another customer rose from the corner of the taverna and approached the bar. Like the red-head, this man was not a Roman; he was a Jew.

“Most people came to him in search of life,” the Jew said. “But you came in search of death?”

“Yes,” the man said. “For my sins I am denied the peace of the opening earth; I heard it said that this man forgave sins.”

“So he did, but he also condemned them.” The Jew offered his hand. “My name is Ahasuerus.”

The red-haired man took the proffered arm. “My name is Cain.”


	3. Spook

_The Three Keys tavern, Lancashire – 1610_

The bartender of the Three Keys looked at his customer warily. The hooded robe was not in itself significant, but his wooden staff – which he carried in his  _left_  hand – and the silver chain at his belt told a more sinister story.

The man was a Spook.

“What do you want, sir?” the bartender muttered darkly.

“A cup of wine,” the Spook replied.

The bartender brought the drink and turned away, but the Spook lifted his hand – his left hand, again – and the bartender froze, too afraid to turn away.

“Do you know a family named Ward?” the Spook asked.

The bartender squirmed uncomfortably. “I, uh… There’s Farmer Ward; farms the land on the far side of Hangman’s Hill.”

“He has children?”

“A fine set of sons, yes. Seven…” The man fell silent as he realised what he was saying.

“And brothers?”

“Six,” the bartender whispered. He half moved to cross himself, to the Spook’s evident amusement.

“You should be careful. That kind of behaviour will get you into almost as much trouble a being a Spook. So, Ward is a seventh son? And his youngest boy?”

“Young Tom? He’s a… He’s a good lad, but a bit…”

“Odd?” The Spook guessed. “Yes; that sounds very promising. And he is left-handed?”

The bartender was about to deny it –Ward was a friend and people did not like people talking to strangers about his odd son – but the Spook’s glare defied him to lie. “Yes.”

“Good.” The Spook left his wine untouched, but placed payment on the bar beside the cup. “Perhaps this will not be a wasted journey after all.” He sighed and his face sagged; he suddenly looked very old. “I can only hope that it will prove so.”


	4. Hero

_The Marching Drum tavern, Nocturn Alley – 2006_

The bartender of the Marching Drum looked at the man at the bar. He was tall and skinny with greasy black hair; almost teenage greasy, although he was pushing into middle age. He looked a right mess, all muck and soot and hollow eyes; he had clearly been in a fight and a particularly fierce one at that. On many nights the bartender would have kicked him out, but this was no ordinary night. The news was grim and ordinary people were that little bit less willing to take a stand than they had been a day before.

The man must have been in a black mood because he ordered a bottle of Sourdew Tonic. The tagline on the bottle promised absolute forgetfulness, but neglected to mention that this came at the cost of perfect recall the morning after. Sourdew gave you the mother of all hangovers and it one hundred percent impervious to all know anti-intoxicant spells and potions.

The barman asked the man if he knew this. He said that he did.

“I am in need of forgetfulness,” he said darkly.

“That’s only temporary. Tomorrow morning, you’ll remember everything.”

“Good. I think I need to remember as well.”

“I mean  _everything_ ,” the barman pressed. “All the way from the moment of your birth to your first sip of the Sourdew.”

“I know!” he snapped. “I was Potions Master of this country’s foremost institute of magical studies for over fifteen years you wretched squib.” 

The barman shrugged. The Marching Drum was shy enough of respectability that you got used to hostility working there. “I guess you know what you’re doing then.” He poured the Sourdew Tonic and half filled the glass before he realised who the man must be and his hand began to shake uncontrollably, spilling the expensive liquor across the bar.

“I’m not paying for that,” the man said softly.

“Of… Of course not, sir. Enjoy your drink.”

“I won’t,” Severus Snape promised. “I doubt if I’ll ever enjoy anything again.”


	5. Scarecrow

_The Family and Firkin – December 29th 2006_

“I know you, don’t I?” the barmaid asked.

“I doubt it,” the young man replied. He had a handsome but arrogant face and dark, dishevelled hair.

The barmaid looked him up and down. He was dressed in a long, tattered smock and woollen gloves, with a moth-eaten scarf around his neck. “I’m sure I’ve seen…” She shook her head.

“I  _really_  doubt it.” Despite his rough garb, his voice was as dry and refined as a Dom Pérignon Brut.

The barmaid swallowed her protests. The man’s voice was as cold as his eyes and brooked no argument. “So, uh… what’s your poison?”

“Spite,” he drawled acidly. “Give me a beer.”

“What kind of beer?”

He looked at the pumps and tapped one in an offhand fashion. “That one.”

“Right you are, sir.” She drew off a pint and placed it on the bar. “Anything else?”

“A bag of pork scratchings.”

“Right. That’ll be two pound fifty.”

For a moment, the barmaid was not sure whether the man would have any money in his tatty clothes, but he produced a wallet and proffered a five pound note. “Keep the change,” he said.

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Think of it as compensation for the shock,” he suggested.

The barmaid was baffled. “Shock? I spent most of Christmas Day standing on the roof of the old school waiting to jump, I doubt there’s much that could…”

With a roar of smoke and flame, the door of the pub flew off its hinges and knocked poor old Jimmy Hedges down. Against all good reason, a Santa Claus in a metal mask charged through the pall of smoke holding a rifle, which was admittedly somewhat shocking behaviour for a Santa Claus.

The Santa stumbled to the bar and levelled his rifle at the barmaid. “The telephone,” it hissed in a low, inhuman whisper.

The barmaid whimpered, too frightened to move. Santa touched a control on the side of his rifle and it hummed ominously. Fortunately, the young man at the bar reached over and picked up the phone.

“Here you are, old man,” he said.

Santa took the phone. He set down his rifle in easy reach and began disassembling the handset.

“Wh-what’s he doing?” the barmaid asked.

“You sound shocked,” the young man noted calmly.

“What?”

“He’s combining components from a short-range teletransmitter with the telephone to try to boost his transport signal through the entire network and achieve a longer-range jump back to his shoal.”

“What?”

“Hmm. Excuse me.” He took a single step towards Santa and snatched the mask from his face; the face behind it looked like another mask, but somehow the barmaid knew that this was the real face.

The metal thing turned towards the young man and reached for its rifle.

The young man picked up his pint. “Chin-chin,” he said, and he threw the beer into the blank, metal eyes.

Sparks flew from Santa’s chest and it staggered away from him. The young man picked up the rifle and shot Santa twice in the chest and one in the head. Santa dropped to the floor and vanished in a flash of blue light.

“What?” the barmaid said one more time.

“I’ve been tracking them across the county for almost a week. Most of them shut down after their sponsors’ ship was destroyed, but the rest continued on a standard fallback program. I lost this one yesterday, but it needed a signal boost and you have the only telephone in the village.” He twisted a switch on the side of the rifle and held it out in front of him. He let go of the weapon and, before it could even start to fall, it had vanished in a fierce blue glow.

The young man stood up. “You won’t see me again,” he said.

“I might,” she managed to croak. “I saw you before.”

It was his turn to say: “What?”

“When I was six. There were men with metal in their heads.”

“Ah,” he breathed. “Yes, the robomen.  _His_  leftovers again. Well, who knows?” he said with false bonhomie. “This is a busy time for your world, after all. I would not count on it, however.” He took the wallet out again and handed another fifty pounds to the barmaid. “For the damage.”

“I, um… right.” Mechanically, she turned and put the money in the till.

Behind her, she heard the young man whisper: “Goodbye for now, Sister-of-Mine.”

The barmaid turned in surprise, but the man was not looking at her; he was looking into the mirror behind the bar. When he saw the barmaid looking at him, he turned and smiled at her. “Do you know how this pub got its name?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he strode off.

As he left the pub, the barmaid saw something hanging from his pocket. A piece of sacking, roughly embroidered with dark thread, like the head of a scarecrow.


	6. Bounder

_The Crown, London – the near future_

“Is it even worth my asking for ID?” the barman asked.

“Probably not,” Jamie sighed, “although I have an old passport here somewhere.” He dug in his pocket and produced the document.

The barman examined the passport and frowned. “You’re a hundred years old?”

“And then some.”

“I can’t serve you.” The barman handed the passport back.

“I understand,” Jamie sighed. The barman left him sitting at the bar; the pub was not busy enough to ask him to leave.

After a few minutes, the landlady came over and smiled kindly. “Look; if you just want to keep out of the rain for a bit, I’ll sort you out a cup of tea or a Coke,” she said, “just keep out of the way a bit or we’ll get into trouble.”

Jamie nodded sadly. He retreated to the end of the bar and sat in silence until the tea arrived. He did not really want tea, but although he could have gone to any of a hundred words where he could have bought alcohol to numb his pain it really had to be  _this_  world to which he came to grieve.

“Are you alright, love?” the landlady asked. “You look a little out of sorts?”

Jamie shrugged disconsolately. “I’ve lost someone,” he explained. “Someone who was important to me.”

“Oh, poor lamb. It wasn’t your mum, was it?”

Jamie shook his head. “I lost…  _She_  lost  _me_  a long time ago. Helen was… She was my best friend.”

The landlady’s face creased in sympathy. “Oh no. It’s always terrible when a little kiddie dies.”

“She was ninety-seven,” Jamie replied. “Or thereabouts. It’s hard to tell.”

“Don’t you have friends your age?”

“She  _was_  my age when we met.” Jamie shook his head. “I wonder… Maybe it’s better this way. She was the last, you see; the last one I knew. There’s no-one left now, for me to watch getting older. No-one to stop looking at me as an equal and start thinking of me as a child, because however long I live I never get any older.”

The landlady’s sympathy began to be replaced by concern. “Look, is there anyone who could…”

“I told you,” Jamie replied calmly, “there isn’t anyone anymore. They’re all dead.” He drained his cup and stood up. “I’d better go.”

“No, wait…” the landlady began, but he was already walking along the bar towards the door. “Mike! Stop that kid.”

The barman came through the hatch and moved towards Jamie. The boy just smiled slightly, turned sharply to the right and disappeared.


	7. Lawman

_Caffrey’s Emerald Bar, Justice Plaza – 2125_

“I don’t know what it is,” the Judge muttered.

“Ah…” the barbot quavered.

“What?”

“Well, sir, I was just thinking… Maybe you’re lonely.”

Judge Dredd looked up at the robot with a blank expression. “Lonely?” he asked, almost as though he were enquiring what the word meant.

“W-well, sir; most people have someone, or something, or at least  _somewhere_  to go home to at the end of the day. What do you have?”

“Are you… analysing me?” Dredd growled.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’m programmed to provide insight and advice to customers. I-it’s not something I have any control over.”

Dredd leaned over the bar. “Develop some,” he advised.

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Lonely. I’m not lonely,” Dredd muttered to himself, but he did not sound very convinced. “Rico, Giant, Steel.” His voice was inaudible. “So many gone, and I’m still here.”

“Perhaps, sir…”

Dredd’s jaw barely moved as he rasped out: “I said control that programming. And give me another drink.”

“But, sir; the drinking hours designated for this area by the Justice Department expired two minutes ago.”

“Another. Drink.”

“Yes, sir,” the bot whined unhappily.

“I don’t need people and I definitely don’t need robots telling me to  _socialise_  more.”

“Oh, sir; I would not dream of suggesting that you socialise more. My programming diagnoses only one cure for loneliness.”

“Lemme guess: drink more.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I should have known. Doesn’t it occur to you that all people who drink from being lonely get is to be lonely drinkers?”

“I am not at liberty to analyse my own programming,” the robot assured him primly.

Across the street from the bar, a car screeched to a halt outside the Steve McQueen Block ground floor convenience mart. Three masked citizens climbed out and ran to the store.

At once, Judge Dredd turned from the bar and stood up. “Helmet radio: Dredd to control. Robbery in progress at the corner of Starsky and Hutch. Send a catch wagon.”

“ _That’s a Rog, Dredd_ ,” the voice on the radio replied.

Dredd strode towards the door, but half-turned before he left. “Lock the door when I leave, robot.”

“For my protection?”

“No, creep! It’s seven minutes past the end of designated serving hours; I’m fining you a hundred creds for licence violation.”

“But sir!” the robot protested. “You said…”

“And you should have thrown me out.” With that, Dredd eased the Lawgiver from his hip holster and left the bar.  
The helmet radio crackled once more. “ _Hey, Dredd; special message from the Chief Judge_ ,” the controller said.

“Go ahead, Control.”

“ _Happy Birthday, Joe_.”


	8. Killer

_Correy’s Saloon, Shining Light – 2513_

“What’s your trouble, stranger?” Correy asked in his usual gruff tone.

The man at the bar looked up. His dark eyes were haunted and hollow, his voice when he spoke as soft as a whisper. “Everything is wrong,” he said.

“Well, it can’t be that bad,” Correy assured him. “Why don’t you tell me about it. I hear a lot of problems working here.”

The man looked at him. “I have made myself a monster in the service of the good, only to find that the good that I sought to protect was more monstrous than I could have imagined. Have you any idea how many people I have killed?”

Correy took a step back. “Okay,” he said. “See, now I hear a lot of problems, but mostly they’re of the ‘my wife is leaving me’ kind. “I don’t want to get involved with no murder investigations.”

“Oh, no investigations,” the man said with a smile. “Nothing I do has ever been investigated.”

“I’ll just…”

“Get me a drink?” the man suggested. “It would be safer than calling the police. They won’t arrest me even if you call; not yet anyway. It will take a little time before they decide to send anyone after me and when they do, it won’t be the police.”

“I’ll get you that drink,” Correy decided.

“You do that, barman.”

He was still sitting in exactly the same position, in exactly the same pose, when Correy returned.

“Have you thought about becoming one of those human statues?” Correy asked.

“There might be an irony in that,” the man acknowledged. “To be seen but never act; quite a reversal for me.” He downed his drink in a single gulp. “Thank you, barman. We shall not meet again.”

The man dropped a coin on the bar. Correy looked down as it rattled on the wood; when he looked up, the man was gone.


End file.
